


You

by ravyn_nevermore



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Domestic!Jim makes tea, Emotional Roller Coaster, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Fluff, Gunplay, Kissing, Lies, M/M, Sapiosexuality, Sweet!Jim, implied pining, patient!Jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:07:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravyn_nevermore/pseuds/ravyn_nevermore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by THAT scene in The Abominable Bride. You know the one. Still, however, set in present day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> co-written and more to come over time.

Jim crept slowly up the stairs of 221B. It had been far too long, but he still remembered the faulty, squeaky step. He tiptoed over it, missing it completely; the surprise had to be perfect. Normally quite calm, his heart beat quick and heavy under his pressed Yves Saint-Laurent suit. He stopped just outside the door and breathed in the familiar scent of violin varnish and tobacco, rotted experiments and pungent chemicals. Things the detective had no doubt gone nose-blind to. This was, of course, Moriarty's seventh time here in the last two weeks, but the first time he wouldn't be alone. He pressed the door open since it wasn't latched and slithered his way inside, looking at the detective lost in concentration on the floor. "Did you miss me?"

It was possible he could have heard Jim climbing the flight of stairs that led right to his door, despite the fact that the consulting criminal remembered to skip the still broken step. After all, the building was old, given to its squeaks and creaks. And it was certainly possible that he could have heard Jim slipping the door open with the utmost care before creeping his way back in. It was all possible, until the excessive number of nicotine patches that littered Sherlock's arms came into play, as well as the haze that filled his mind, leaving him caught somewhere between numb and alert. His eyes blinked open at the sound of the man's voice and he was certain he was imagining it, as he often did. "Not terribly," he answered in a soft drawl. "If you're a figment, you're welcome to stay, since you will anyway. If you're real, you'd do well to slither back into whatever hole you crawled out of before you find a bullet in you."

"And here I thought you'd be pleased to see me." Jim edged around the room, purposefully keeping from any part of Sherlock's view other than the periphery. He'd keep Sherlock believing it was a figment for a moment. It was fun, after all. "Nice rooms you have. I like them. Cozy. And the stench..." Jim inhaled deeply. "It's like being at home. And your bed... it's surprisingly comfortable." The reptilian man smirked to himself.

The detective's mind went briefly to the loaded gun kept in the desk drawer not paces away. Mycroft had more than once threatened to take the bullets, and the gun, away completely, but so far he had yet to follow through. Should his brother learn of his more recent habits, Sherlock was certain that would change. Still, what need did he have for a gun? This latest appearance of Moriarty was no more real than any of the others. He watched the shadows skirt around the room, his pupils large and his face pale and calm. "And how do you sleep?" he hummed, closing his eyes again. "I doubt there's anything that keeps you up at night. You're far too busy bothering me."

"I didn't say I _slept_ in your bed, did I?" Jim giggled the sickening laugh of a madman. "I merely said your bed is surprisingly comfortable. Be creative, Sherlock. Think. Or have you forgotten how to do that?" He waltzed closer to Sherlock and leaned down to whisper in his ear, "And I always think of you. Every. Single. Time." He straightened back up. "No other thought has ever worked quicker. You do wonders for me, my dear."

Had he forgotten how to think? He spent so much time in an altered state of mind, he wasn't sure there was a concise answer to that question. Was it thinking, wondering the halls of his mind palace, taking steps closer and closer to that door he still didn't dare go through? As it turned out, he didn't need to. The contents had slithered out into the waking world, and this one was frighteningly vivid. But he reminded himself it wasn't real. It couldn't be. He shuddered, keeping his eyes closed. "I must remember to kill my dealer," he muttered to himself. "A high is difficult to enjoy when the side effects are so abhorrently repulsive."

Jim tutted. "You cut me deep, Sherlock. You really do. I'm insulted. I thought you and I had... a special something." He finally wandered around into Sherlock's view, looking about the room. His eyes landed on the desk and he felt nosy, rifling through the papers and seemingly meaningless junk. He glanced up at the detective a few times, waiting to catch his eyes.

Sherlock scoffed. Had his eyes been open, he would have rolled them. "Please. I doubt anything cuts through your reptilian skin." Then he heard the soft rustle of papers and something shifted in his mind, a horrible chill running down his spine. That, he had to admit, was new. Thoughts were beginning to scream through the haze in his mind and his dark brow furrowed in distress. _'The gun's in the desk. It doesn't matter, it isn't real...'_ Still with his eyes closed, he reached over, tearing one of the patches from his arm. Think, he needed to think.

"Oh, doesn't it?" Jim took the gun out of the drawer. He turned off the safety and looked in the chamber. Hmm. Loaded and not used in quite a long time. He blew into the barrel. "Mind if I fire it? Just to get the dust off..." He aimed the gun at Sherlock's head, finger resting comfortably on the trigger. James tried to keep from smirking and so angled his head slightly to hide it better.

Perhaps it really was just an especially vivid hallucination. The coherency, the background sounds.. It wasn't unheard of. One way to find out, he supposed. He forced himself to open his eyes, slowly, and had there been any colour left in his pale face to begin with, it all would have drained away completely. Still, his expression remained surprisingly neutral and after only a second, he turned his attention to the rest of the patches on his arms, dark curls falling in front of his face. "You're not real," he informed the man flatly, his fingers trembling in his efforts.

"Really? Had no idea. Thank you, Sherlock. Now I can fizzle away like a bad dream." Jim lowered the weapon only to cock it and point it at Sherlock's face again. "Would you like to find out how real I am? Why would you say I'm not real? You see me here, don't you?"

"I've seen you here before," he muttered, fumbling with the last few patches and tossing them away, leaving red, hot marks on his pale skin. "And you do, fizzle away like a bad dream. So if you don't mind getting on with that, I do have more productive things I could be doing than conversing with the memory of an unfortunate stain on this earth."

Jim giggled again. "You still believe I'm dead, don't you? Idiot. Moron! Haven't you seen all the clues? Are you missing the biggest one of all?" He lowered the gun and pulled his phone from his pocket with his free hand.

"Believe, wish. Would a human sacrifice help? That's up your alley isn't it?" Finally the last patch was removed and he prayed that the fog would clear. Fear was already setting in, and he couldn't afford it. Not now. He watched the gun in Jim's hand carefully, though he wasn't afraid to die. And he didn't think the man was there to kill him. "I suppose I was hoping you'd have the good sense to stay dead."

"I was never dead, Sherlock. I couldn't just leave you, could I? All alone in the great big world. After all... I'm the only one you really care about. The only one who can entertain you. Challenge you. Keep you busy and satisfied. I've seen the way you whine and pout when you get a case that's anything other than one I've laid out for you. It's sweet, actually. And watching you plead and beg for something to challenge that big, sexy brain of yours... It just gets me... so... hot..." Jim opened his mouth and let his tongue loose, raising the gun and licked up the barrel slowly. He ran his tongue around the muzzle and wrapped his lips around the slide, taking it into his mouth obscenely before slowly pulling it back out. He kept eye contact with the detective the entire time.

Despite the fact that this Jim was very real, the words were similar to every other one of his imaginings, and unfortunately, no less accurate. After all, he'd had Magnussen, hadn't he? An interesting challenge at the time, but solved, and closed permanently. And it wasn't Charles Augustus Magnussen that kept him awake at night, or haunted his subconscious enough to show up as vivid hallucinations. "I wouldn't go so far as to say 'whine'," he uttered finally, struggling to keep his tone cool and level. His bottom lip curled slightly but otherwise he offered no reaction to Jim's display with the gun, half-wondering if the thing would just go off in his mouth. Instead he rolled his eyes, sitting up and leaning against the foot of the sofa. "And what is this 'biggest clue'?" he hummed, raising an eyebrow. "Should be interesting, because I still have half a mind to kill you myself."

Jim turned the safety on the weapon and set it back on the desk. "They never found a body, Sherlock. Didn't work that out, did you?" He unlocked his phone and played a very realistic, quite loud gunshot sound. The very same he'd used that day. "Amazing what a bit of theatrics can do even to fool the world's greatest detective. Sound effects. Contacts. Squibs. It was far too easy, really." Jim chuckled. "I can't believe I actually fooled you. But I'm back now. And I'm here for what I want. What I've always wanted."

" _I_ saw a body," he muttered darkly, his eyes flickering to the gun then back to Jim's face. "That was good enough for me." He hated himself for it, but he had jumped at the sound of the gunshot, every nerve frayed and on edge. He wanted to be frustrated with himself, kick himself for the stupid, idiotic mistakes he'd made all that time ago, but he was having a difficult enough time struggling to deal with the reality he now found himself in. His phone was in his bedroom and who would he call? His brother? John? He swallowed thickly, watching Jim carefully. "And what is it exactly that you want?" he demanded flatly, not sure he really wanted to hear the answer.

Jim shuffled closer and extended a hand to help Sherlock to his feet. His brown eyes sparkled in a way that was both familiar and unfamiliar. His lips curled up in something of a smile, and he spoke only one word, "You."

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't accept his help, getting unsteadily to his feet and immediately moving away, establishing the distance between them once more. As much as he didn't want to admit it, to Jim or himself, he wasn't surprised by the man's answer. Nor did he have any problem formulating his own reply. "Well I'm sorry to disappoint you," he hummed, smiling coldly. "But you don't get me."

Jim returned his hand to his side. "Oh, I _get_ you Sherlock. More than anyone ever has. And you get me. We understand each other. Two sides of the same coin; made for each other. Why do you think I tried so desperately to get your attention when we were just children? You were the only other one they called a freak."

"By getting my attention, you mean murdering Carl Powers in cold blood?" he clarified, raising an eyebrow. "Yes, well, you certainly succeeded there. Though you might have tried a somewhat more subtle approach." He curled his fingers, feeling the blood beginning to flow again. "I think the solitary nature of 'freaks' has somewhat escaped you, James. You _don't_ get me. What you do get is a choice between a prison cell or a bullet."

"I wouldn't say it was cold blood. It was... let's call it self-defense. He bullied me. I could have done the same for you, but you ignored me. It took something much, much bigger for you to notice me. You ignore subtlety. What was I supposed to do? Drop a letter in the post? 'Dear Sherlock. You have no idea who I am but I'm a freak like you'...?"

"That was hardly self-defense," he scoffed, his bright eyes narrowing slightly. "Do you expect me to feel sorry for you? I'm just sorry you didn't really pull the trigger on top of that roof." He shook his head, moving past him towards the desk. "You choices are beginning to narrow, James. I would make a decision if I were you."

Jim sat on the desk, grabbing the gun and holding it behind him, stretching to keep it out of Sherlock's reach childishly. "You won't get rid of me, Locket darling. You need me. Half as badly as I _want_ you. Unless we're roleplaying, now. Are we role-playing? I know you have handcuffs..."

Sherlock stopped in front of him, irritated, but still knowing enough to not underestimate the criminal currently taking up residence in his living room. "Don't call me that," he muttered darkly, keeping his hands at his sides, for the moment. "I don't need you. I've managed perfectly well without you. And I will continue to do so." He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I do. And who exactly were you hoping they would be used on?"

"Me, of course. If we're going to role-play, I might just let you arrest me. As long as the prison cell is your bedroom and you're my cellmate. D'you mind sharing a bunk?" James grinned and twirled the gun around his finger. "You can stop pretending now, Sherlock. I know how you feel. It's alright. I know you're afraid. That's alright, too. It's not the falling that hurts. It's not the falling that's dangerous. It's the landing. It's whether or not there's something or someone there to catch you. I promise I'm already there, Sherlock. And I'll catch you."

The detective smirked thinly, shaking his head. "I'm not going to give you that satisfaction," he informed him smoothly, pleased when his voice came out as even as it did. "And we certainly won't be sharing a bunk. You're going to give me the gun, and if you're lucky, I'll shoot you. More than likely, I'll leave you to my brother. I'd take the bullet if I were you." But he knew Jim wasn't going to give in, and he couldn't let himself be drawn in by what the criminal was offering. Listening too long was like letting the hypnotist directly into your head, until his voice was inextricable from your thoughts. So Sherlock made a grab for the gun, his free hand fisting in the collar of the man's expensive suit.

Jim wrapped a leg around Sherlock's thigh, drawing him in closer. His left arm wrapped around Sherlock's neck, but he still kept the gun away. "Don't keep lying to me, Sherly. It isn't polite. And I can see through your lies anyway, so it's doing you no good, really."

Panicking at first, he switched gears, letting the hand currently fisted in Jim's suit to flatten, shoving against his chest instead, tensing against the hold around his neck. He still wasn't any closer to getting the gun and an idea formed slowly in his mind. Last resort was an understatement. He allowed hesitation to show on his face, mixed with fear and uncertainty, but for the moment he fell still, allowing his gaze to flicker to the criminal's lips. He wished he could say it was a difficult show to put on, but truly...  
Still cautious, he leaned slightly closer, the hand previously reaching for the gun now curling loosely over the man's shoulder.

Jim tossed the gun to the floor, ignoring that he'd turned the safety off. It hit in just the right way that it fired a bullet into the wall behind the couch. "Oopsie," Jim giggled, wrapping his right arm around Sherlock and pulling him even closer. "That's it. Just give in to what we both already know you feel." He played his fingers into Sherlock's curls, wrapping the ringlets around his fingers.

...Well that had backfired terribly. Of course, 'backfired' was probably a terrible choice of words, and Mrs. Hudson certainly wouldn't have heard the shot: currently on vacation in Florida. His demeanor changed immediately now that his goal was currently lying on the floor. "Please, you're not the only one who can act," he hissed, yanking away from Jim's fingers in his hair. "Let go of me."

"And we both know that wasn't entirely an act." James smirked and slid off the desk, going around and picking up the gun. He pulled the slide, putting a bullet into the firing chamber and took it by the muzzle, passing it to Sherlock. Once the detective had a hold of it, Jim stepped closer, maneuvering the hand so the barrel of the gun was up against the criminal's chest, over his heart. "Do it, then. You don't need me? You want me dead? Kill me, Sherlock. And I'll never bother you again. It's that easy."

Furious, he opened his mouth indignantly, but no protest seemed to actually want to come out. Besides, what was it they said about people who protest too much? He watched Jim's every move, wary and still on edge. Quite honestly though, having the gun in his possession didn't make him feel any better and his hand shook uncontrollably as he met Jim's gaze. He was right. It was that easy. All he had to do was pull the trigger. So why couldn't he do it? Perhaps he was focused on the wrong person. He lifted the gun, running the barrel absently down the length of his own pale throat. "And why should you get the easy out?" he asked softly, lifting an eyebrow. "Why shouldn't I just take away your favourite plaything?"

"Because you don't want to die either, Sherlock. You don't fear it, but you don't wish for it no matter how reckless you may be. If you did, you'd have _actually_ thrown yourself off that rooftop, not created a big, theatrical diversion to make it call fake. Talk about not being subtle..." Jim snickered. "And you don't want to leave me any more than I want to leave you."

"I had my reasons at the time," he answered evenly, feeling strangely calm despite the circumstances. "But I don't have any problems with dying." He placed the barrel of the gun firmly under his chin, holding Jim's gaze. "Do you really think, for an instant, that I wouldn't do it? And gladly? Truly, James. It's not as if I haven't considered it. Whether or not I want to leave you has very little to do with it. Depriving _you_ of _me_ is the most noble thing I could do."

Jim sighed and shook his head, looking disappointed. "Just stop, Sherlock. Stop all of this. You're afraid. I've told you it's okay to be afraid. You don't know how to handle what you're feeling. I didn't at first either. Still don't, really." He held out his hand, palm up. "Give me the gun, darling, and then I'll make tea."

"You don't know the first thing about what I'm feeling," he snapped. But his hand still trembled, and he knew that if he dropped the gun, the backfire really might kill one of them so he placed the pistol reluctantly in Jim's hand, shaking. " _Stop_ calling me that," he muttered, raking a hand through his mess of dark curls. "And stay the hell out of my kitchen."

Jim unloaded the gun before putting it back in the desk drawer with the bullets. He gave Sherlock a pitying look before flouncing off to the kitchen and switching on the electric kettle. He hummed a Vivaldi tune as he took two cups from a cupboard, looking comfortably at home. He went to the pantry for the tea. "Still take milk in yours, don't you, love?" He picked up a green box. "Irish Breakfast. You really did miss me," he hummed, shooting a flirtatious glance over his shoulder.

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment, leaning heavily on the desk. Hell, he wasn't even sure he could move. Finally, he opened the desk drawer, placing the bullets in the pocket of his robe but leaving the gun before moving to the bedroom and slipping his mobile into his other pocket. He still hadn't made a decision, he needed-- he didn't know what he needed. Coming back out to the living room, he rolled his eyes. He was ninety percent sure there was a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard that was _called_  'Moriarty's' that he'd bought on a drunken excursion to Dublin. Hopefully he'd drank it all. "I'm not drinking anything you make," he informed him curtly, dropping onto the sofa.

"You know how insulting it is to turn down tea when it's offered? I make excellent tea, you know." He dropped a couple of tea bags into the ceramic tea pot. and went over to the fridge, taking out the milk. Knowing Sherlock's knack for ignoring food, he took the lid off the jug and sniffed at it. Hm. Still good. He set it on the counter and went around looking for biscuits.

"I'm afraid to know what you put in your tea," he called lightly, touching his phone in his pocket. Part of him wanted to scream. It should have been so easy. One pull of the trigger and the Irishman would have been dead at his feet. For good. He would be able to sleep at night, he wouldn't have to _worry_. And now he was letting the same criminal make tea in his kitchen. All because he didn't want to be bored. James wasn't the monster, _he_ was.

"Milk, just like you, silly." He continued to search through the cabinets.  
  
""And cyanide, I'll bet," he muttered, taking his hand out of his pocket for the moment. "...What are you looking for?" Sherlock called somewhat nervously, eyeing the archway to the kitchen.

"I'm just looking for biscuits. You sound nervous. Hiding something? Another gun? Afraid I'm going to come after you with a che--" Jim's words were cut short when he opened the cabinet above the stove. "Oh. Now, what's this?"

"I'm out of biscuits, stop going through my things." He strained his ears to listen, closing his eyes and groaning inwardly. Why did they even have to make a whiskey with that name? Granted, it was exceedingly Irish and he had been in Dublin, but still. Why on earth had he bought it? "Are you making the damn tea or not?" he shot back, gritting his teeth.

"The water's boiling," Jim shot back, coming into the doorway with a mostly-empty bottle. He kept his face stoic as he looked up at the other man. "Care to give details on why, exactly, you have a bottle of Moriarty's Irish Whiskey... which can only be purchased in a very specific pub in Dublin?"

Sherlock glared back at him, scratching his arm where there were still pink marks on his skin. "It was a gift," he muttered, glancing away. "My brother thought he was being funny, I suppose it was his idea of a joke. You'd have to ask him." Any other time he might have been able to actually make that sound convincing.

"Still lying to me?" Jim clicked his tongue. "I'm feeling generous. Have another go at that, why don't you?" He crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned against the doorway, holding the bottle to his chest as he looked at Sherlock, waiting for an answer.

"Generous?" he repeated incredulously, laughing out loud and shaking his head, his dark curls swinging. "Or what? It's none of your damn business why I have it, but I'll certainly tell you what you can do with it." He pulled the sleeves of his robe down over his arms, wishing he could stop fidgeting. "Or shall I draw you a diagram instead?"

Jim laughed and unscrewed the lid of the whiskey, taking a swig. "You're cute when you're flustered and irritated. It's okay to tell me the truth. I'll tell you a secret, if you want."

"I don't want anything from you," he mumbled, watching him resentfully. "And I'd prefer if you didn't swig my whiskey out of the bottle, it was expensive. You're the one so concerned about rudeness."

"I know how expensive it is. I paid to have my name on the label in uni. It was a stupid thing, but oh well." He took another sip. "You went to Dublin, didn't you? Went to the pub in my old neighbourhood- where I was raised and abandoned until I was shipped here to live with my auntie- and you saw this bottle and brought it home. Not easy to smuggle through customs. You'd have to care an _awful_ lot to make sure this got home safely and in one piece." The warmth of the whiskey hit Jim's stomach and he shivered.

Sherlock didn't answer right away, exhausted and dazed and uncertain. He knew what he wanted, but he was fighting it with every fiber of his being. "Yes, I saw it," he answered finally, his voice tight, and there was a venomous smile on his pale face. "I thought I might throw it off the roof of the hospital. A fitting tribute, wouldn't you say? But I was drunk, and alcohol always becomes more sentimental when you're drunk. I should have just poured it out."

"You're still lying. But since that was such an amusing lie, I'll let it slide. The kettle's done." A split second later, the kettle did, in fact, signal that the water inside was ready. Jim put the whiskey back and poured the water into the tea pot. He put the pot on a tray with the tea cups and poured milk into a little creamer dish, adding that to the tray as well. He picked up the tray and carried it into the living room, settling it on the coffee table. "Tea is served, my dear."

"You say you'll let it slide as if there's actually any repercussions for me lying to you," he laughed quietly, before flinching slightly at the sound of the whistling kettle. Gunshots, kettles...Christ, he felt like he was going to have a nervous breakdown. When Jim moved back into the kitchen, Sherlock glared at the whiskey bottle as thought it had personally offended him, glancing up at the man's return. "You look positively domestic," he sneered softly, tucking his feet up under him and making no move to touch anything on the tray. "If you call me dear one more time, I'll shove that bottle down your throat."

Jim laughed yet again. Sherlock did truly amuse him most times. He took off his shoes and left them near the door, settling- surprisingly- on the floor beside the couch. "Domestic surprises you? What did you think I'd do when I wasn't working? Never eat? Never sleep? Never have tea? I'm just like you, Sherlock. It's a shame you only know what I'm like at work." He poured tea and milk into both cups before picking one up and blowing at the steam.

Sherlock continued to watch him, his suspicion tempered slightly with curiosity and something else that he couldn't have named even if pressed to. "I've never given any thought to you outside of your...chosen profession," he lied, arching an eyebrow and glancing briefly at the tea tray before looking away, swallowing lightly. He himself couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten or slept, but right now, neither were his main concern. "What exactly do you think is going to happen here?"

"I think you're going to give in and drink that nice cup of tea I just made you. And I'm wondering when you'll stop lying to me. Thinking that my showing up here tonight was yet another hallucination indicates that you have, in fact, thought of me outside of work. So... why don't you indulge me and share those thoughts? I'd love to hear them."

"I will pour that nice cup of tea you just made me all over your tailored suit," he promised him sweetly, possibly the most honest thing he'd said since Jim had walked into his flat. "What is this obsession with me lying to you? What exactly are you going to do? Are you keeping a tally, is that it? I'll lie to you if I damn well feel like it James. I don't owe you _anything_."

Jim sighed and took a long sip of tea, closing his eyes. He turned to look at Sherlock after he'd swallowed. "I don't understand why you can't just talk to me. Neither of us have clients or cases. I'm not threatening you or anyone you love. There are no weapons here between us. There's no pool. No court room. No rooftop. Just /talk/ to me. Tell me the truth. Stop lying to me. I haven't lied to you once since I stepped in here tonight."

"There's a gun," he pointed out tightly, though what good it would do him he could no longer say, since he couldn't even seem to pull the trigger. He lifted his gaze to Jim's face incredulously. "Do you hear yourself?" he asked hoarsely, his brow creasing. "What exactly do you want me to say? You're not threatening me or the people I love at the moment, is that meant to be comforting? The last time I saw you, you wanted me to _kill myself_ or watch my friends die instead. And now... what? I'm meant to forget that so we can have some sort of fling? You're delusional, James. You don't get to demand anything from me, and you certainly don't get to expect anything."

"All I've ever wanted was your attention, Sherlock. I feed you puzzles and games to solve because I've got nothing else to do with my brain and it's how you satisfy yours." Jim set his tea cup down and got to his feet, brushing off his suit. He went over and picked up his shoes, putting them on. "I'll... see about sending another case your way, but I haven't had a proper client in weeks. Goodbye, Sherlock." He slipped out the door.

Sherlock watched him set down the tea, his uncertainty growing as the consulting criminal brushed off his suit and slipped his polished shoes back onto his feet. "James-" But he'd already disappeared through the door and Sherlock swallowed anxiously, his hands refusing to stop trembling. "James." He called after him, hating how desperate he sounded, and he sat rigidly on the sofa, not knowing if the man would come back, if he _wanted_  to come back. He slunk over to the bottle of whiskey, taking it back to the couch and taking a long pull, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Jim turned and opened the door. "What is it, Sherlock? Care to spout more abuse in my direction? Go ahead. Get it over with and then let me be on my way."

He jumped slightly at the sound of the man's voice, turning. Definitely not another hallucination.He took another swig from the bottle, shaking his head. "...I don't want you to go," he muttered reluctantly, feeling the whiskey course warmly down his throat and pool in his middle.

"Very funny, Sherlock," Jim sneered, slamming the door this time. If Sherlock didn't want him around, didn't want to talk, oh well. James would learn to move on and deal with it.

"Wait-" The sound of the slamming door jarred through his entire body, and in a fit of frustration he hurled the bottle of whiskey at the wood, the glass shattering on impact. He'd been telling the _truth_ and Jim had still left. He stumbled to the bedroom, tearing the nightstand apart for more of the nicotine patches, something, _anything_. His entire world turned upside down again in the space of an hour and the last person he should have wanted was the one he _needed_ back in his flat.


	2. Chapter 2

Under the cover of darkness, Jim walked the entire way back to his flat instead of calling his driver. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his inner jacket pocket and took one out, leisurely smoking it on his way home to settle his rattled emotions. By the time he was home, he'd gone through four cigarettes.

  
Sherlock wasn't sure how long he lay there on his bedroom floor. Hours, perhaps; the room had grown dark around him. Jim had been right, about everything. He needed him, for a distraction, for a purpose, for his sanity. Not only that, he wanted him. That moment against the desk had only partly been an act. And now he had no way of reaching out to him. He lay in a daze, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep, imagining he heard the man, saw him, tossing and turning restlessly. He was broken, and he didn't even care.

  
The following morning, there was urgent rapping on Sherlock's door. Mrs Hudson was still gone and no one else would let themselves in. Greg's voice came through the wood. "Sherlock! Sherlock, open the door! It's important."

  
'Get up and open the door'. But it wasn't Greg's voice in his head, unless Lestrade had suddenly developed an Irish accent, and Sherlock's eyes flew open, but he was alone. Well, mostly alone. Groaning softly, he stumbled to the door, barely noticing when he stepped in broken glass. He stared back at Lestrade through bleary, bloodshot eyes. "What on earth are you going on about?" he yawned, running a hand through his tangled hair.

  
"A case, Sherlock. I haven't seen anything like it. You need to come quick. I'm afraid it can't wait. You'll need to ride along in the squad car." Lestrade was out of breath and quite obviously distressed.

  
Sherlock frowned, still struggling to make sense of the distressed man's words. His feet were bleeding but he paid them no mind, simply stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind him, gesturing for Greg to lead the way. Mrs. Hudson was going to kill him when she saw the stain on the carpet, but he wasn't thinking about that. He was thinking about the evening before, every single word exchanged, as he sat in the passenger seat of the squad car.

  
Greg drove him over- sirens and lights blaring- to St Bartholomew's Hospital, where he led the detective down to the morgue. Molly looked rather green as it was, but when she laid eyes on Sherlock, she looked worried. "You okay? You look like you've not slept properly in two weeks." She glanced down. "And you're bleeding!"

  
Sherlock went rigid and didn't ease so much as an inch when St. Bart's came into sight, and his mouth went painfully dry. Every step he took following Lestrade down the corridor was like a prisoner's to the electric chair, and it took everything he had to not outright bolt from the building. He barely glanced at Molly, his eyes lined with shadows. "Leave it, it's not important," he muttered in response to her concern. "Just show me what's happened."

  
She swallowed hard and nodded. "Right." Molly turned and pulled the sheets back on the victims on each of three tables. "They, um... They've had their hearts... removed. Like a... bad horror film."

  
Greg stepped next to Sherlock, trying not to look at the gory bodies. "They're all single males of relatively high IQs. Slender to athletic build. Brunette, obviously. Sherlock, we're concerned you might be on the list of targets."

  
Sherlock wasn't one to express much sympathy, though Molly was obviously distressed, and he had even less of a capacity for it now. His expression remained surprisingly neutral as he took in the grisly sight before him; only a flash of...something, in his darkened eyes betrayed any emotion. The resemblance of the bodies was undeniable and he swallowed thickly, struggling to think clearly through the fog that lingered in his brain. "...When was the last one killed?" he asked quietly, taking in every minute detail in a matter of seconds.

  
"About two hours ago. These three have turned up since last night around midnight, and--" The detective inspector was interrupted by his ringing cell phone. "Oh. Hang on." He answered the phone and turned his back to the other two in the room. A long pause, and then, "They what?! You're kidding me! Yeah, I'll ask." He turned to face Sherlock. "You're not gonna believe this. But three others turned up in Dublin. Same thing, but the victims are shorter. About the same build. Also brunette and high IQ. They wanna know if you'll add this to your case."

  
Two hours. He closed his eyes, briefly shutting out the entire morgue around him. And these three just last night. Three people murdered. Because of him. The sound of the ringing cell phone was painful and he grit his teeth tightly, dread tightening his chest. He could guess the news that Lestrade was receiving before he'd uttered a word. He nodded dully, his eyes drifting open. "Hearts cut out." Six. That brought the body count to six. And how many more? "Yes, I'll--" He cleared his throat. "I'll take the case. I just need to go home for a minute." Hell, he still needed shoes.

  
"Right. I'll drive you there. We'll have to work out the soonest, quickest flight to Dublin. Your brother still has a jet, yeah? I'll call him." Greg started walking out of the morgue, dialing another number.

  
"No." His voice was suddenly firm, surprising even himself, and he ensured that Greg had put the phone down before continuing. "I need you to stay here. You won't be able to help me in Dublin, you'll just get in the way. Don't call my brother, do _not_  get him involved. I can get to Dublin on my own. Is that clear? Don't get _anyone else_ involved and don't go out doing anything stupid."

  
Greg stopped, stunned. He gaped at Sherlock for a moment and nodded. "Alright. Whatever you need to do."

  
Thank god, for once he hadn't argued. Nodding, Sherlock gave the bodies one last glance before leaving the hospital. He managed to hail a cab outside of the building, taking it back to Baker Street and climbing the stairs almost nervously, half-expecting to find Jim in his flat once more as if nothing had happened. He was grateful Lestrade had listened, the last thing he wanted was Mycroft getting involved. Now he just needed to get to Dublin. ...And get dressed first, probably.

  
Jim didn't usually do this sort of thing unless it was for a client, but he was hurt and chose to act out. Sherlock only wanted him around for puzzles and games? Fine. He'd get them. In abundance. So Jim hired some people to carve out the hearts of three men who looked like Sherlock and three men who looked like Jim. If Sherlock paid attention, just like 'I.O.U' had been a message, broken hearts were showing up all over the city: newspapers, music, graffiti, etc

  
After finally tending to the cuts on his feet and changing into his usual attire, Sherlock arranged for a small private plane to fly him to Dublin. Nowhere near as glamorous as his brother's jet would have been, but well worth the sacrifice. When it came down to it, he didn't care who had committed the actual murders. He knew who was responsible. The tools were disposable, and he could be concerned with them later. The signs didn't escape him and the further he got, the more he felt like he was dealing with a petulant child. A dangerous child. Not knowing where else to start, he ended up in the same pub where he'd found that particular bottle of whiskey, purchasing one and bringing it over to the back. Another reason not to have Lestrade around, breathing down his neck for drinking 'on the job'.

  
Jim was drowning in a bottle of single malt himself and two packs of cigarettes in. He was a wreck and he refused to let anyone see him, even his most trusted employees.

  
About halfway through the bottle, a thought occurred to Sherlock. It was somewhat of a drunken thought, but he was long past grasping at straws. He got out his phone, scrolling down to the single number he had for James, simply marked J.M., and opened a new message. He had no idea if the number would even work, or if he'd reply, but he had to try something. People were dying. _He_ was dying.  
**I need to see you. SH**

  
Jim saw the message right away, sighed and threw his phone, watching it skitter across the floor. He glared at it for several minutes before crawling over to it. He grunted and stared at the bright screen in his drunken stupor.  
' **Fuck. You. I don't need you. -JM xx** '

  
Sherlock felt a flood of relief when James actually replied and he took a celebratory shot of whiskey before fumbling to respond, shaking.  
**I know you don't need me. SH**  
 **I need you. Please. SH  
** It was desperate, but he didn't care. He was drunk, he was at a loss. If begging was what it took, he would swallow his damn pride.

  
Jim scoffed. He may be drunk, but he wasn't stupid.  
' **Stop the joke. It's not funny and never was. You don't need me or want me. You wanted me gone. -JM xx** '

  
**I'm not joking. I wasn't joking last night. I wanted you to stay SH**  
 **You were right, about everything SH**  
 **Take it out on me, not these people. What do you want me to do? SH**

  
Jim took a while to think it over, processing as well as he could in his haze. He slid down to lie on the floor.  
' **Stop treating me like a monster. Like your enemy. We need each other. You need the cases. I give them to you. Give and take together. -JM xx** '  
' **I want you to talk to me. Without lying. Without threats. Just talk to me. You don't know what I'm like outside of work. You know nothing. -JM xx** '  
' **And I know you're scared of the fall. I told you that last night. But I'll catch you. You have to believe me even if you don't trust me yet. -JM xx** '

  
'[delay] **You're right. I know. I need you. Just not like this, please SH** '  
**'I won't lie to you anymore. I won't threaten you. No one knows you're still alive, I haven't told anyone SH** '  
'[delay] **I don't trust you. I can't, not now. But I believe you. I have to believe you. Just stop this SH** '

' **Do you see what happens, Sherlock? When you hurt me? When you break my heart? Do you know how difficult that is to do? -JM xx** '  
' **You break my heart after you've stolen it from me, and I'll tear yours to pieces. Get the message? -JM xx** '

  
'[delay] **Yes. I'm sorry, alright? SH**  
' **You have to stop hurting these people. Hurt me if you want, not them. SH** '  
**'I'm here in Dublin, what do you want? SH** '

  
**'I don't want to hurt you, Sherlock. -JM xx** '  
**'Figure out a way to tell them you've solved the case so they'll leave it alone and clean up the mess. -JM xx** '

  
' **I'd rather you hurt me than innocent people SH** '  
' **Did you kill them yourself or did you hire someone? SH** '

  
' **Hired someone. I've never killed a person other than Carl Powers. My hands are always clean. -JM xx** '

' **I suppose I didn't have to ask SH** '  
' **Jim, you have to give them up so I have something to show SH** '

  
' **They're disposable anyway. I'll email you their information. -JM xx** '

  
' **Thank you SH** '  
' **Where are you? SH** '

  
' **At home. Three-quarters through a bottle and two packs of smokes deep. -JM xx** '

  
' **You're going to kill yourself like that. SH** '  
' **Shall I meet you at mine or yours then? SH'**

  
' **Give me some time to sober up and then I'll tell you. -JM xx** '  
' **Check your email. -JM xx** '

  
**'Got it. SH** '  
With the information he needed, Sherlock called Lestrade and let him know where he would be able to find the responsible party, suggesting he enlist Mycroft's help if he needed assistance in extracting a confession. Jim would remain untouchable. Desperate to be out of Dublin, he took the next ferry back, arriving in London late that night and anxiously awaiting something, anything, from the consulting criminal. Hopefully something a little less grisly.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim flushed himself with ice water and a long shower. Feeling slightly better, he stuck to the more casual side of things and pulled on a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt before having his driver return him to Baker Street.

  
After a long, hot shower and two paracetamol, Sherlock changed into a pair of navy blue pyjama bottoms and a dark grey t-shirt, his curls still dripping slightly as he moved onto the sofa with a cup of particularly strong tea, the steam curling in the air in front of him. Lestrade had questions, of course, but Sherlock all but shut him out. No one else was going to get hurt because of him. With nothing else to do, he sat and listened, sipping his tea and watching the door to his flat, the glass cleaned up from the floor.

  
Jim stared at himself in the car's mirror for a long time, wondering how he'd gotten to this point. Why he decided to embrace the way Sherlock made him weak in the knees and sprout butterflies in his stomach. Why he was willing to do anything for that stupid man. He sighed and went up to the flat, knocking rather timidly.

  
At first, Sherlock didn't hear the knock, staring into the depths of his tea as though it somehow held the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe. Finally, he looked up, swallowing thickly. "It's open," he called, his forehead lined with hesitation as he watched the door. It was understandable, after what he'd seen earlier, and he knew what the man was capable of. But he also knew that he wasn't worried for himself. He looked back at his tea, grateful he'd at least left the kettle on if James decided he wanted anything.

  
Jim opened the door hesitantly and stepped inside, locking up behind himself. He looked over at Sherlock. "I may have... overreacted. Slightly."

  
Some sick part of him wanted to laugh at Jim's understatement. But he couldn't, not just then. His eyes were dark, and he didn't look up at him. "...The kettle's on if you want tea," Sherlock intoned after a moment.

  
Jim looked pretty much void of life as he came over to Sherlock. "No appetite for it at the moment, but I appreciate the offer. May I have a seat for now?"

  
He nodded wordlessly, both hands wrapped around his tea mug. They'd mostly stopped shaking for now, which he was grateful for, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it returned. And he also knew he wouldn't be able to close his eyes without seeing the result of Jim's tantrum.

  
Jim cleared a spot on the coffee table and planted himself there. "I'm afraid I don't take rejection well and the gravity of my feelings toward you-- Sometimes I don't know how to handle it. Especially when you push me away."

  
Sherlock lifted his gaze to Jim's face, seeing in one eye the devil, and in the other an avenging angel. He really was beyond this world. "...Murdering half a dozen people is not how to handle it," he informed him quietly, his voice soft. "I told you that I wanted you to stay. You just didn't believe me."

  
"How was I supposed to believe you when you spent the rest of the evening denying me and abusing me and lying to me?! You mistake me for a psychopath but psychopaths do not have feelings. _I_ do. And I think you forget that. You want to help people, but so do I. I want to help them get rid of the things that are upsetting them. Just like I got rid of Carl Powers."

  
"Abusing you? After everything--" He broke off, swallowing. Whether or not he forgave what had happened between them, he had to try to stay calm. "And those men," he managed finally, the barest waver to his voice. "Did they upset you, too? Just because they looked like me?"

  
"The other three were my own doppelgangers. Only three looked like you. They didn't upset me. You did. Our situation upset me."

  
"So, you took it out on innocents. How very like you." He sighed, closing his eyes. There was no point being angry with James, he knew there was no one to blame for the murders but himself. ...Which didn't exactly help. God, he needed a fix. Or a smoke. Or a drink. ...Or all of the above. "So what now?" he asked quietly. "Do you want to move in? Live like domestics? Start a family?" Sarcasm laced his voice, but it was bitter, and wary.

  
"Do I look like the type of man to want to waste precious time with rugrats," Jim sneered. "I prefer my own home. If anyone was to move anywhere it would be you moving in with me."

  
Sherlock chuckled quietly, still wary but holding his own. "I'm not going to move," he told him simply, sipping his tea. "If you want me, you know where I am."

  
"I said _if_ Sherlock. I never asked you to actually move in with me. I'm not sure I could tolerate you long enough to actually live with you." Jim scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. "Why did you ask me to come back?"

  
"...Because I knew you were right," he said quietly, staring at his tea. "Because-- I didn't know what else to do." He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. "And because it wasn't completely an act. When you had the gun." He shook his head a little, swallowing. "...Why did you come back?"

  
Jim was trying to hold back. He set his jaw, clenched his teeth, closed his eyes. "You know why," he hissed, not wanting to admit it out loud because then it would make it real and make the rejection all the more painful.

  
Sherlock just nodded wordlessly, dark, thoughtful eyes set in a pale, impassive face. He wasn't going to reject or deny him. If he was, he would've handed him over to brother from the start. There was an odd warmth in his middle and he found that once again he couldn't think, swallowing nervously.

  
Jim ran his hands through his hair and stood up . "This is obviously not going to work. You clearly don't want to see anything but the monster in me. We're better off simply working together.'

  
Sherlock looked up quickly at that, his eyes widening slightly. "No-- you can't leave again," he told him honestly, anxious. "Just-- sit down."

  
"No, Sherlock! I'm finished! I'm not going to fight a losing battle. You obviously don't understand!" He took out his wallet and threw bills at him. "Here's fifty quid to get a fix and another fifty to buy a fucking clue! You may be a genius, but you're so incredibly, infuriatingly dense!"

  
Sherlock flinched, as if some part of him feared that the money could actually cause him physical harm. But he refused to lose him again, worried not just for others, but for himself, and for James. He shook his head, the tea on the coffee table as he slid onto the floor. He was on his knees and he didn't even fucking care. "I understand," he promised him, looking up desperately. "I do. I'm just... terrified, alright? You know that, you told me that. But I'm asking you not to leave. ...Please."

  
Jim glared down at him. "On your knees. A pretty picture I've always wanted to see, but I can't find it in me to care. Why should I stay? You want to hold my transgressions against me. I know I should not have taken my pain out on innocents, but it's what I'm familiar with. I know I should have done something else to spike your blood and pique your interest besides threatening your life or the lives of your friends. Have you ever made a mistake before?"

  
Sherlock swallowed thickly but he didn't rise to the offense. He couldn't afford to when he was desperate. "Of course I have," he muttered, his voice low. "I made a mistake letting you leave last night. ...But now I'm asking you to stay. I'll bloody beg if that's what you want to hear." He paused, managing a thin smile. "Besides. There's a lot I can do from my knees."

  
Jim stepped away from him. "No. This is not something you can fix by offering me sexual favours."

  
"Then how can I fix it?" he uttered, rubbing his arm anxiously, the turmoil in his mind beginning to get to him. "What do you want me to do? Tell me anything and I'll do it."

  
"I told you, Sherlock. Talk to me. Treat me like your equal, because I am. But I think you are in love with the monster. Not me."

  
"I'm not-" He broke off, drawing a shaky breath. "...I never asked you to come back," he whispered, his eyes haunted. "I was managing without you. You can't just waltz back in and demand all of this from me."

  
"Then why beg me to stay? You manage without me. You didn't ask me to come back. Allow me to leave."

  
"I said I _managed_ without you. But then you came back, and I can't-" He shook his head, defeated. "...I can't function without you."

  
"Sherlock, you only found out last night that I'm still alive. You said yourself I must be a hallucination. One of many. So... Which is it? Did you manage without me or were you unable to function? Because I refuse to function without you. What good is a performance without an audience?"

  
The consulting detective swallowed, glancing away. "...Fine," he whispered. "You don't want me to lie to you? I wasn't managing. I'm not managing. And I can't function. So don't ask me to." He lifted his gaze back to his face, searching his expression for a sign of...something.

  
"That's all I wanted." Jim reached out to help Sherlock to his feet as he had done the night before. "We need each other, you and I, in order to be complete and satisfied. Will you let me show you everything your life could be?"

  
This time, Sherlock took his hand, his own cold and shaking, yet somehow steadying as he let Jim help him to his feet. He nodded in silent consent, his heart racing against his chest.

  
James looked up at him, slowly releasing his hand. "Have I ever left you bored and wanting?"

  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment before smiling sadly. "Yes," he whispered. "When you let me think you were dead."

  
"Besides that, you great idiot." Jim settled on the couch, taking a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans. He pulled one from the box and pressed it between his lips before lighting it with a match.

  
Sherlock continued to watch him, lowering himself slowly onto the sofa beside him, eyes fixated on the cigarette held between the man's lips. "...No," he admitted, an itch starting in his fingers, and he curled them against his leg.

  
"And I never will," Jim promised, exhaling a thick plume of smoke. He passed the cigarettes and match book to the detective beside him.

  
It took every ounce of self control he had to not outright rip the cigarettes from Jim's hand. He had a bit of trouble with the match but eventually managed to get the cigarette lit, taking a shaky pull before exhaling, his eyes closing as his thoughts finally began to still. "...I know you won't."

  
"You're shaking." Jim looked him over. "You're still wary I might attack. Or worse... Leave."

  
Sherlock shook his head, leaning back against the sofa and looking up at the ceiling. "No, it's not that. I haven't had anything since last night and...yes, I'm still afraid you're going to disappear again," he sighed, studying the pattern of cracks above him.

  
Jim took another drag of his cigarette. "What can I do to solidify and make permanent in your mind my presence?"

  
Sherlock shrugged, closing his eyes and focusing on the nicotine as its effects crept through his mind, stilling him. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "I've seen enough phantoms of you to know that they don't last."

  
James looked over at him and ran his fingers gently over Sherlock's cheekbones. "Unless you throw me out, I won't go anywhere until morning."

  
He flinched slightly in surprise before gradually falling still, his pulse fluttering. Then his eyes opened. "You're leaving in the morning?"

  
"Says the man who mocked whether I should want to move in," Jim scoffed taking another drag. "Yes, I'm leaving in the morning. I have work to do."

  
Sherlock nodded wordlessly, not trusting himself to respond. He knew it shouldn't bother him if Jim left in the morning, or even that same night, but it did. He could already feel that emptiness creeping back in and he took another drag of the cigarette to try and keep it at bay. "Fine."

  
"Locket, dear, if I never leave you, how am I to ever keep you entertained?"

  
Sherlock turned to look at him seriously, his eyes surprisingly genuine. "Keep me entertained here," he told him simply, raising an eyebrow. "For now. You've only been back a day; I promise you it won't be difficult."

  
"Sherlock, look how you get when you don't work for a period of time. Now imagine twice that."

  
"I worked today," he pointed out somewhat bitterly, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air. "Wasn't that enough for you?"

  
"That wasn't work. It didn't involve a client or much thought at all. It was an emotional response. But... If it makes you feel better, perhaps I can work from here."

  
"It sure as hell felt like work," he muttered, exhaling softly. He lifted an eyebrow, looking over at him. "Are you making a compromise?"

  
"Perhaps. Do you have something better to offer?"

  
"I don't have anything to offer," he told him honestly, shaking back his dark curls and watching the end of the cigarette glow. "Not a damn thing."

  
"Then I will stay if you allow me to work here. Fair?"

  
For some reason, agreeing didn't seem like the wisest decision, but he nodded regardless, holding his hand out for another cigarette.

  
Moriarty took another cigarette from the pack and twirled it between his fingers. "You can have this... For a price."

  
Frowning, Sherlock grabbed at it, his fingers falling just short. "I'm not going to beg for a cigarette, James."

  
"I didn't say beg. I said there's a price." Jim turned slightly sideways, facing Sherlock sort of head on. "You denied me something last night. Something I've wanted for a long time. You remember what that was?"

  
Christ, it was right there. Why didn't he just take the damn cigarette? He felt like a dog waiting for a treat. He shook his head. What he did remember about last night was being left alone and passing out on the floor. "I wasn't aware I denied you anything last night."

  
"Your little act in trying to extract your pistol from my hand?"

  
"...What about it," he muttered reluctantly. He had the nicotine patches, but they were a far cry from the real thing.

  
"You teased it and denied me it. So... That's what I want. As payment for this second cigarette."

  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, searching his face to see if he was serious. He was. "Just give me the damn cigarette, Moriarty," he uttered finally.

  
"Only after you kiss me. _Holmes_."

  
"Forget it," he hissed, sitting back and crossing his legs almost demurely. "I'll go without."

  
Pouting, Jim continued twirling the cigarette around his fingers. "And why not? We both know you want to. I even went through a half roll of Trebors on my way."

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, continuing to watch him. Only when he thought he had a shot did he lean forward suddenly, snatching at the cigarette.

  
Jim jerked the cigarette away. "Nope. Not until I get my kiss."

  
Gritting his teeth, he swallowed thickly. "Fine. I'll kiss you for the bloody cigarette."

  
"A proper kiss. Not the way you kissed Janine. Not the way you'd kiss a relative. The way you'd kiss a lover. A _real_ kiss, Sherlock."

  
"How the hell-" He didn't finish the question, deciding he didn't want to know the answer. "I understand. Are you going to keep talking or are you actually going to let me do it?"

  
"Cameras," he answered the unfinished question. "I didn't want you thinking you could get away with something small. But you also haven't even begun."

  
A muscle twitched in his jaw, and he resisted the suddenly appealing urge to shout at him. He'd address the camera issue later. Instead, he leaned forward, hesitating before cupping Jim's cheek carefully in one hand and angling his face to kiss him softly, his eyes half-lidded and dark.

  
Pleased, James hummed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer. Surprisingly, his heart began to race as he tried to deepen this kiss. An electric warmth ran down his spine and he broke out in goosebumps.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irish-English translations located in notes at the end of the chapter and are indicated by asterisks or tildes

For a dangerous moment, Sherlock forgot that he wasn't actually supposed to be enjoying this, and he parted his lips slightly, one hand curling almost nervously in the front of James' shirt before he remembered, pulling away. His pale cheeks were flushed, his pupils dilated, and he held out his hand again wordlessly for the cigarette.

  
Jim stared at him, brown eyes shining brightly- with no sign of whatever partial insanity created the monster he was in his work. He swallowed and cleared his throat, blinking as he handed over the cigarette

Sherlock snatched it from his hand, placing it between his lips, but he couldn't get the damn match to light. "Shit-" He tossed it away in frustration, trying again with the second one. "Satisfied?"

  
"No," Jim whispered with a correction, "Addicted." He discarded the stump of his own neglected cigarette and reached out to trace the features of Sherlock's face lightly.

  
Finally striking the match, he lit the end, taking a long pull and turning his face before releasing the cloud of smoke. "Shame for you," he hummed, smiling softly

  
"Oh? And why is that?"

  
"Because you don't get your fix," he informed him, closing his eyes as he took another drag.

  
"I don't understand. You want me. You need me. You begged me to stay. But you keep pushing me away."

  
"Just because I'm not sucking face with you doesn't mean I'm pushing you away," he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

  
"Well, I enjoyed it. Didn't you?"

  
"I-- that's not the point," he muttered, scowling. "Now I'm going to start asking the questions. Do you have cameras in my flat?"

  
"Not anymore. Promise. Search it. They've all been since removed."

  
"...I believe you," he murmured reluctantly, knowing it was true. His heart was still beating quickly and his face was flushed; he could still feel the man's fingers on his neck and he shook his head to clear it, exhaling shakily.

  
"Any other questions, my dear?"

  
"No," he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment before reaching for the remote to turn on the television, figuring some distraction was better than none.

  
James ran his fingers up into Sherlock's curls gently. "Will you kiss me again, then?"

  
Shivering lightly, he turned his head, studying Jim's face. "I don't need another cigarette," he pointed out, smiling tiredly.

  
"I didn't offer you another cigarette. I asked for a kiss," Moriarty pointed out.

  
"Asking?" Sherlock considered for a moment, chewing his bottom lip before repenting hesitantly, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

  
Jim smiled and wrapped Sherlock's curls around his fingers gently. "Don't be so afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to disappear. You have me. And I have you."

  
Sherlock tensed at first, but this time he didn't pull away. "I know you're not going to hurt me," he mumbled, hearing his heart pounding against his chest. It was his own feelings for Jim that he didn't trust. Adjusting to his affection for John had been one thing, but this...it took dangerous attraction to a whole new level. He curled his fingers in the sofa as if anchoring himself there, his knuckles glowing white.

  
"Then what, exactly, are you so afraid of? No one is going to see. No one will know. It's just us here. You're safer with me now than ever with me before."

  
"Nothing," he uttered instantly, swallowing hard. "...But you don't really think we can keep this a secret, do you? Someone is going to find out." And if it ended badly, there were too many people who could be caught in the crossfire, especially if Jim decided that he had been wronged. "It isn't me I'm worried about."

  
"I think you underestimate me, _mo chuisle~_. We live for risks don't we? If you're not worried for yourself, then who?"

  
"Believe me, I don't," Sherlock laughed darkly, shaking his head carefully. Then he sighed. "People I care about, James. If...whatever this is, doesn't work out."

  
"I won't hurt anyone you're close to should this turn sour. You have my word, Sherlock."

  
Sherlock gazed at him intently, his eyes hard. "Promise me," he demanded. "No matter how hurt you might feel. You'll leave them out of it."

"I promise. But I don't see this going sour. At least not so easily nor so soon."

  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I think you should probably be prepared for the possibility. I don't exactly have an immaculate track record."

  
"Do you think I do? But I believe in this. We were made for each other."

  
Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling sadly. He'd never bought into such sentimentality, but he wasn't about to tell James no. "As you say."

  
"Now will you kiss me?"

  
Sherlock opened his eyes, rolling them a little before kissing him shortly, feeling his heart skip nervously and hating it.

  
Jim didn't let go. He would continue coaxing the detective until he was no longer afraid. He kissed along Sherlock's jaw and back to his lips. "You taste like everything I've ever imagined," he whispered.

  
A soft moan slipped out before he could stop it and he swallowed nervously, every muscle tensed but still not letting him pull away, and one hand slowly unfurled from its death grip on the couch cushion.

  
Jim's free arm wrapped around Sherlock's waist and he tried for the man's lips again.

  
Shivering, he relented, returning the kiss however hesitantly as his eyes drifted closed, another soft sound rising in his throat. His better judgement was rebelling, but he did his best to ignore it.

  
Jim kissed him tenderly, working their lips slowly and helping Sherlock get comfortable.

  
A familiar heat began to pool in his middle and he leaned back the slightest bit, still not breaking the kiss as his long fingers just barely crept over Jim's leg.

  
Oh. That was very good. Carefully, Jim moved to straddle his lap, running his tongue along the seam of his mouth.

  
Both hands went immediately to the man's chest but he still didn't push him away, struggling with himself. His brow creased in distress even as his lips parted slightly, and his pounding heart had become almost painful.

  
Gently, James moved his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and explored every bit of it.

  
No longer able to keep from moaning softly, Sherlock fidgeted with the front of Jim's shirt, fingers analyzing the- no-doubt expensive- material. Even a plain shirt had to meet certain standards, after all, and he knew the man accepted nothing but the best.

  
Jim pulled away slowly. "Touch me all you want, however you want. I'm yours," he whispered.

  
Sherlock stared back at him, worried he'd done something wrong when Jim pulled away. His pupils were large and his face was flushed. "I-- I'm not asking anything from you," he managed quietly.

  
"Shh. I know. I'm telling you to do as you please. Stop worrying. Just... _touch_ me, Sherlock." Jim guided the man's hands down to his hips. "Touch me any way you want. You have permission because I'm yours. Listen to instinct. Listen to your desire."

  
"You seem to think you know an awful lot about what I want," he mumbled, tensing as Jim guided his hands down to his hips. His fingers were still shaking, curling nervously where they settled. He shook his head, his heart still racing and his breathing shallow.

  
"I can read you like an open book, Locket. Just as easily as you can read me." Jim laid a hand on Sherlock's chest, feeling his frantic heart. "Take a deep breath. Slow and even. Relax."

  
"I told you not to call me that," he muttered, his heart only racing faster when Jim laid his hand on his chest. He swallowed tightly, taking a short breath rather than follow the man's instructions. "I'm fine."

  
"No, you're not. Take a proper breath or else you'll lose consciousness from oxygen deprivation and that's not the kind of mouth-to-mouth I'd like to be giving you. And why shouldn't I call you Locket? After all, a locket is something important you keep close to your heart."

  
"I'm not going to pass out," he scoffed, rolling his eyes, despite feeling increasingly lightheaded. He swallowed thickly, frowning. "Because it's a ridiculous nickname and someone already beat you to it, alright?"

  
Jim pouted. "I like that nickname. Guess I'll just have to nickname you in my native tongue, _mo ghile mear~~_."

  
_Take it up with my brother_ , he thought but didn't say. An odd chill ran down his spine at the words and he swallowed, forgetting to breathe again. "Or you could just call me by my actual name."

  
"Don't like when I speak Irish to you?"

"...I didn't say that."

  
"So you _do_ like it. "

  
"Didn't say that either," Sherlock hummed, smirking.

  
Jim grinned and leaned in to whisper in Sherlock's ear," _Mo thuairimse, a dhéanann sé do rith fola te_ *."

  
His breath caught audibly in his throat before he could do anything about it and he cursed himself silently, heat curling in his middle. "You're acting ridiculous.."

  
Jim chuckled and purred, " _Tá mé ag gníomhú sa cháil sin? I mo thuairimse, Tá mé ag casadh tú ar, álainn. Ciúin d'intinn. Lig an mothú a ghlacadh os cionn**_."

  
"James-" His voice shook and he grit his teeth lightly, chills racing down his spine despite the heat of his skin. "Stop it."

  
James shushed him and traced every bit of skin his could reach with his fingertips. "The transport is as beautiful as the mind it carries."

  
He tried to turn away but there was really nowhere to go, causing him to reach up and catch Jim's wrists loosely in his hands.

  
Jim stopped immediately. "What's wrong?"

  
"...You," he breathed, releasing his wrists after a moment. "I just-- I can't think."

  
"Good. Don't think. Feel. It's quite freeing really. And has the added benefits over no possibility of overdose."

  
"You're not going to try to get me clean are you?" he muttered, raising an eyebrow. "...I think you're doing this on purpose."

  
"No, I'm not trying to get you clean. I use recreationally myself. I'm not a hypocrite."

  
"Recreationally," he chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Good, I'm glad to hear it. If Mycroft couldn't do it, you certainly won't be able to." He studied the man's face for a moment, eyes dropping to his lips.

  
"I don't use the same things. Marijuana is my choice. I tried LSD once but with my mind.... Well, you can imagine."

  
Sherlock shuddered at the very thought, shaking his head. "You should stick to heroin," he hummed, leaning in slightly without even thinking about it.

  
"I don't like heroin. I'll stick to marijuana. Calms my mind. Quietens it." Jim pecked his lips.

  
"To each their own," he murmured, hesitating for a moment before leaning in to kiss him again, cupping his face with both hands.

  
Jim melted against him easily running his fingers through the detective's satin locks.

  
Part of him was still tempted to pull away, but instead he tangled his fingers in the front of Jim's shirt, struggling to get closer.

  
Moriarty pulled away just enough to whisper against his lips, "Let's try something. Just one tiny little thing, hmm? "

  
Flustered when he pulled away, Sherlock had to force himself to answer, managing an uncertain nod.

  
"You want to get closer, don't you? Your body language says so. So, here..." Jim leaned back to tug his t-shirt off before toying with the hem of Sherlock's top. "May I?"

  
His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the man across from him, his beauty. Suddenly self-conscious, he nodded reluctantly, swallowing.

  
Jim pulled off Sherlock's shirt and tossed it on the opposite end of the couch. His fingers wandered the ivory plane of the detective's torso. "Mm. My previous statement stands: the transport is as beautiful as the mind."

  
The instant Jim's pale fingers touched his skin, any coherent thought went flying out the window and he shivered weakly, chills racing across his skin. "James-"

  
"Oh, Sherlock," the man sighed, wrapping his arms around him, leaving no space between their bare chests as he claimed his mouth yet again.

  
A soft moan rose in his throat as he curled his hands loosely over the man's hips, marveling at every inch of flawless, pale skin. If he could just think for a moment...but he couldn't, and that was the point. He still didn't trust Jim, but god knew he was relying on him.

  
Cautious, tender kisses began to turn more heated and desperate as Jim's tongue slipped into Sherlock's mouth again. James couldn't keep his hands still, wanting to touch the other man everywhere possible.

  
This time he had no intention of pulling away, a slightly more desperate moan leaving him at the deepened kiss, and he dug his nails into the man's skin, leaving crescent shaped marks in their wake.

  
Jim moaned quietly. Sherlock was heading in the right direction if he wanted to move this to the bedroom.

  
Realizing he was already starting to become affected by something as simple as kissing, Sherlock pulled back slightly, embarrassed, panting softly for breath.

  
Jim caught his breath, staring at the detective all the while. "You are a vision, Sherlock. And you have no idea how much I am burning for you right now."

  
Sherlock tried to laugh it off but his breath wavered, causing the sound to come out shaky. "If I didn't know better, I would accuse you of being high right now," he murmured.

  
"That's the thing, Sherlock. I _am_ high. And you're the new drug." Jim kisses his lips. "Haven't you studied brain chemistry?" Another kiss. "Oxytocin? Endorphins? Seratonin? Dopamine? Testosterone?" A kiss between each word.

  
"Yes, of-- of course I have," he mumbled distractedly, his hands trembling. "James, please, I can't concentrate-" The truth was he needed the man like a drug as well, but he'd had years of practice battling his urges.

  
"Stop trying to. Just focus on the way you feel. Or the way you're making me feel. Because everything you're feeling right now is the same for me." Jim brought Sherlock's hand to his heart. "See? It's even in-sync with yours."

  
Feeling the man's heart racing under his hand, Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes. "I can't risk-" He drew a shallow breath. When had it ever benefited him, letting someone get close? And now James, of all people. He exhaled shakily, kissing his jaw.

  
"Can't risk what, Sherlock? That's what you and I live for, isn't it? Risks?" He holds Sherlock's hand in place and uses his free hand to trace Sherlock's features.

  
"It's different with you," he pointed out quietly, keeping his eyes closed as the man's slender fingers moved across his skin. "I still don't think this is a good idea. But I know I'm not going to stop it." He smiled weakly. "And you certainly won't."

  
"Do you love me, Sherlock?" Jim moved his fingers into the man's hair. "It's okay to tell me."

  
His eyes opened at that, betraying the barest hints of surprise, hurt, and fear before they disappeared. "That isn't fair."

  
Jim pressed his index finger to Sherlock's lips. "It's a yes or no question, _mo chuisle~_. Do you love me?"

  
Sherlock stared back at him, his eyes dark. "If I say I don't know, you're going to leave."

  
"But you do know. So answer: yes or no."

  
"Why are you asking me that?"

  
"There's a reason."

  
"Would you enlighten me?"

  
"After you answer, yes."

  
"You're being unreasonable."

  
"Sherlock, please?"

  
"You seem to already know the answer."

  
"I want you to answer it yourself."

  
"James, please."

  
" _Please?_ "'

  
Swallowing thickly, Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before asking, "And if I don't say it?"

  
"I'm going to be a nuisance until you do."

  
"You mean _more_ of a nuisance?" he teased, raising an eyebrow.

  
Jim laughed. "Precisely."

  
"I don't know why you're doing this."'

  
"Sherlock, I always have a reason. Please, answer my question so we can move on. How much more vulnerable do I have to be before you tell me?"

  
"You wouldn't accept that I don't know. What if it's the truth?"

  
"What if I don't believe that you don't know?"

  
"Perhaps you're simply deluded."

  
"And this is news to you?

  
Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head and looking away. "I'm not saying it."

  
"Please? Say it and I'll let you do anything you want."

  
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "I can do that anyway, I don't need your permission."

  
"With me, Sherlock. I'll let you do anything you want _with me_."

  
"Yes, thank you for that," hummed, reaching for the remote and turning on the television. "I'm quite alright."

  
Jim pouted and moved off his lap, going to the kitchen for a glass of ice water.

  
Sherlock watched him go from the corner of his eye, turning to some crappy late-night show and leaning back against the couch.

  
Jim downed the water and put on his shirt. "Well. Guess I'll be off then."

  
"What?" Sherlock looked up a little too quickly, frowning. "You said you weren't leaving."

  
"You're suggesting I stay with a man who doesn't know whether he loves me? A man I can't even keep interested?"

  
"James-- the detective sighed, turning off the television. "Until yesterday, I still believed you dead. I'm more than interested in you, believe me, but you have to concede that you're asking a lot."

  
"I didn't ask you today the words. I asked you to say either 'yes'or 'no'. And I must not be very interesting if you're putting on reruns of... whatever shit that was."

  
"It's the same implication," he muttered, tension lines forming on his forehead. "You're the one who threatened to be a nuisance, I figured television would serve as my distraction."

  
"One word, Sherlock. That's all I need."

  
"And if I don't say it, you'll leave?"

  
"Why would I spend the night with someone who doesn't love me?"

  
"We hardly have to have sex," he muttered. "You can still stay."

  
"I didn't say we had to have sex. Sherlock, being with you just then is as vulnerable as I have ever let myself be with anyone. It was like leaving my heart exposed. Do you think that's easy for me to do?"

  
"Of course not," he murmured, glancing down at his fidgeting hands. "And I'm grateful. Truly. Perhaps I'm not as..." He smiled weakly. "Courageous, as you."

  
"And we both know I have less self-control than you. But Sherlock, I've been after you for years. I need you, too. And so forgive me if I need- when I'm finally where I want to be- a tiny little answer to a very simple question."

  
"You've tormented me for years," he laughed, though not unkindly. "And it's hardly a simple question." Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "...Ask me again."

  
Jim took a cigarette from his pocket and put it between his lips, lighting up. He took a long drag and exhaled at the ceiling. "I can't keep playing this game, Sherlock," he murmured.

  
"I'm serious," he uttered hollowly, eyes locked on his face. He wondered what would happen if a master artist attempted to paint him, if they would even be up to the task. "Ask me."

  
Jim scoffed a small, hesitant laugh. " _Fine_." He took another drag. "Do. You. Love. Me?"

  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment, the word hanging in his mouth. He loved what the man could do for him. He loved the way he looked, and the way he made him feel, even when it was torturous. And he knew the truth. "...Yes," he murmured, honestly, looking back at him.

  
Jim's eyes lit up, but his face remained unreadable. He took one last drag from his cigarette and strode back to the sofa, dropping the remainder of the smoke into an ashtray- or some container, he wasn't paying attention. He straddled Sherlock's lap again and kissed him desperately.

  
The consulting detective watched him anxiously, painfully on edge. But Jim's face gave nothing away despite Sherlock's best efforts and he feared the worst until suddenly the Irishman was on his lap and he managed a soft, startled sound before kissing him back with equal desperation, hands already going to Jim's shirt.

  
The offending garment came right back off and James' fingers found Sherlock's curls. Any sense of time was lost until they both had to pull away for breath.

  
Moaning softly at the feeling of Jim's fingers tangled in his hair, Sherlock rested his forehead against the other man's when they broke for breath, gasping harshly. His heart hammered against his chest, and there was still that trace of fear that lingered, but he knew he wasn't going to listen to it.

  
Jim focused on getting his breathing under control, drawing slow, deep breaths instead of gasping or panting. He ran his hands down Sherlock's torso, smirking when he felt his pounding heart. James couldn't help but tease, "All that from just a kiss?"

  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, even as he pressed almost instinctively against Jim's hand, chills rising on his skin. "Shut up," he muttered halfheartedly, swallowing thickly and attempting to get his breathing under control.

  
Jim tilted his head in that reptilian way of his and he smirked playfully. "Are you going to make me?"

  
Sherlock glanced up at him from behind his curls, smiling easily. "No, I'm not. Because I know you would enjoy it."

  
"So would you," Jim pointed out, lightly tugging Sherlock's curls.

  
The detective swallowed a soft sound, keeping his expression neutral. "I'm not going to give you the satisfaction."

  
Jim hummed and pecked his lips once again before trailing open-mouthed kisses down Sherlock's neck and sucking a mark into his collar bone.

  
Caught off guard, he tipped his head back slightly, his hands still curled loosely over Jim's waist. "James-"

  
Jim smirked and pulled away, murmuring, "Seamus." He continued sucking a bruise into the base of his throat.

  
His pulse thudded under his skin, and he could only imagine that he was going to have to continue wearing a scarf. "Someone's going to see that," he managed shakily.

  
"I certainly hope so. I want everyone to know you're taken, even if they don't know by whom."

  
"Well, a good reason to cover up with a scarf," he hummed teasingly, still the slightest bit breathless.

  
"Not that you needed an excuse anyway. Shame you cover up such a gorgeous expanse of alabaster." Jim nuzzled his pulse point with his nose. "It begs to have lips upon it..."

  
Sherlock shivered lightly, swallowing. "London isn't exactly known for its warm weather," he pointed out. "I don't plan to go around showing off any marks you leave like some sort of advertisement."

  
"And why not?" Jim grazed his teeth over Sherlock's opposite pulse point.

  
"Because it's no one's business. And it's dangerous," he replied, faltering.

  
Jim sank his teeth in and ran his tongue over Sherlock's neck before pulling away. "As long as you showcase them around me."

  
The detective hissed softly in pain, moaning. "You really get off on it that much?"

  
"You will too. When you look in the mirror and see the evidence of your lover marking their territory. It's quite primal."

  
Sherlock frowned at that, closing his eyes. "I'm not your 'territory', James," he pointed out calmly.

  
"Turn of phrase, love."

  
"You don't say things without a reason."

  
"You're not my property or territory. But you _are_ mine, yes?"

  
Sherlock hesitated, considering. "...I suppose," he answered finally.

  
"Just as I am yours," Jim whispered, nipping Sherlock's ear lobe.

  
"I don't demand it from you," he pointed out quietly, closing his eyes. "Jim."

  
"Seamus," he corrected again

  
"You've said that before," he murmured. "I can't say it particularly suits you."

  
"Tell that to my mother. It's my real name."

  
"And you prefer it?"

  
"The entire world knows me by one of two names. There's only one person who knows my real name because I trust said person."

  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment before nodding in understanding. "I still think James suits you better," he hummed thoughtfully.

  
"Seamus means 'supplanter' and you don't think that suits me? "

  
"I suppose I'm more used to James," he shrugged simply.

  
"But what do you prefer to call me?"

  
"James," he answered honestly. "But I could become accustomed to Seamus."

  
"Whatever you prefer. I should, however, teach you some Irish. I'd love to hear my native language in your voice."

  
"I know some Irish," he protested lightly, arching an eyebrow. "Is that how you wanted to spend the evening? A language lesson?"

  
"I didn't say tonight. And however much you know, I'm sure you don't know anything sexy."

  
"I'm sure I don't," he laughed, humming softly. "So what is it you want to do tonight?"

  
There was a certain glint in Jim's eyes. "I'm done playing. I think it's time to make the next step, don't you?"

  
"So all this time you've been playing?" He tilted his head to one side. "And what is the next step?"

  
Jim walked his fingers up Sherlock's torso. "A trip to the bedroom."

  
Sherlock watched him for a moment, his eyes dark and thoughtful. "Do you expect me to take control in this situation?" he asked.

  
"No. But I'm asking your permission to take you there."

  
"You don't need to ask my permission," he chuckled softly, tucking a stray curl behind his ear.

  
"No, you're right I should not ask for consent and just take advantage of you," Jim scoffed. He backed off Sherlock's lap and held his hand out. "Coming, then?"

  
"That isn't what I meant," he murmured. "You can't take advantage of me regardless. I simply meant that I'm willing." He took Jim's hand, getting slowly to his feet.

  
"Good. I thought as much. But that didn't stop me from asking." He walked Sherlock to the bedroom and locked the door behind them, leaning up to kiss the detective and cursing his smaller stature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~my pulse or beat of my heart  
> ~~ my darling  
> *"I think it makes your blood run hot"  
> **"Am I acting as such? I think I'm turning you on, beautiful. Quiet your mind. Let the feeling take over."


End file.
